"Mom, can I have a
paper route?"
"No." My answer was
automatic. A job implied a responsibility I had yet to associate with
my eleven-year-old son.
"But Mom, Dan has
one and he makes $75 dollars a month."
"Good for Dan. The
answer is still no. You have enough trouble getting out of bed for
school."
"This is different.
I can do it, Mom. I know I can."
"I said no."
"Why don't you just
admit it. You think I'm too dumb and stupid to handle it. You just
don't trust me."
I didn't call him
dumb or stupid - those were his words, not mine. Yet I couldn't help
but wonder, was that the message I gave him?
"Let him do it," my
husband said. "It'll build character and muscles."
Easy for you to
say, I thought. You won't have to nag him about getting up in the
morning.
You won't have to
drive him when he's late.
After weeks of
pressure, I finally caved in, sure that I would be vindicated in mere
weeks at my son's inability to cope with the daily pressures. My
agreement came with a list of restrictions. I refused to roll papers. I
refused to drive him, even in the rain or cold. I refused make sure he
got up in the morning. Ryan wanted the responsibility. I wanted nothing
to do with it. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I just couldn't believe he
was ready for that kind of commitment. And the best and quickest way I
could figure for him to learn that mother knew best was to let him fall
flat on his face.
Funny how it turned
out that mother didn't know nearly as much as she thought she did.
After a two hour
orientation, Ryan's advisor handed him a route list of forty-one houses
on eight different streets. Ryan hopped on his bike and rode along his
route, trying to acquaint himself with his customers in the daylight
hours. He went to bed smiling, a half hour before his usual bedtime.
"I have to get up
real early, you know," he reminded me.
At two a.m. the
next morning, our dog began to bark. I poked my husband in the side.
"What's that
noise?" I whispered.
"Don't worry," he
told me. "That's just the papers being dropped off. It will happen
every morning about this time."
"Terrific," I
grumbled.
I watched the
digital numbers on my clock tick by. Three o'clock, four o'clock, five
o'clock.
Would Ryan remember
to get up? Was that his alarm going off? I didn't hear any noises that
sounded like he was awake. At five-twenty I couldn't stand it any
longer. I tip-toed down the hall to his room.
His bed was empty.
I made my way
downstairs, careful to stay back in the shadows where I could watch
without being seen. Ryan sat on his knees with a stack of papers a foot
high in front of him. One by one, he flipped the paper toward him,
folded it twice and slid on a rubber band. Then he stacked the papers
in his bag, twenty in front, twenty-one in back.
How will he ever
carry them all? I wondered. Small for his age, I couldn't picture
Ryan's narrow shoulders supporting the heavy burden. I watched in
surprise as Ryan hefted the bag over the arm of the couch. Then he bent
down on his knees beside the bag and pulled the papers toward him and
onto his shoulders. He staggered a few steps before standing, but when
he made it to his feet I gave a silent cheer.
In minutes he was
on his bike and down the road. Within weeks he had the route memorized
and had signed up seven new customers.
But when it came
time to go collecting at the end of the first month, customers either
weren't home, didn't want to pay their bill or swore they paid by mail.
I thought for sure Ryan would give up. Instead, he surprised me once
again. He applied a diligence to collecting that I wished he'd apply to
his homework. He conferred with the Main Office over mail payments and
turned the deadbeats over to his advisor. He never once asked for any
help from me.
I'm not sure you
ever really teach a child responsibility. You can try chore charts and
rewards, but I think the best lessons are more of trial and error.
Responsibility is an adventure a child takes on his own, like learning
to ride a bicycle without the training wheels. Sometimes you fall down,
but eventually you get the hang of it and ride off into new territory.
After two years,
Ryan still has the paper route. He's up to seventy-five houses now and
he's saving for a car. I no longer worry about him being able to handle
the job. With time, his shoulders have gotten a little broader. But
more importantly, he's standing up a little straighter and walking with
pride.
Way to go, Ryan.
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